A Case Most Curious
by Cleo Rina
Summary: It's been said that no magic can resurrect the dead- but what if it could? James Potter has become not only a magical miracle, but a dangerous weapon as well, if in the wrong hands. Fourteen years after his death, how can he possibly rebuild his life? AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a severely AU crack fic with a crack plot and crack pairings and just a lot of crack. That being said, I've always had a niggling feeling that after GoF some malevolent spirit invaded JKR. Maybe it's just me grieving the loss of innocence in her characters and in the story, while simultaneously grieving my own steady progress into adulthood. It's all terribly disorienting. Anyway, the purpose of fanfiction in my life is to explore and satisfy the "what if?" What if magic could bring back the dead? That's a pretty loaded "what if," so this will be a long story, told in multiple points of view including but not limited to James Potter, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, and Voldemort.**

** Thanks to any and all who read.**

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><p><strong>A Case Most Curious<strong>

**Chapter #1**

"_**Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice **_

_**to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it." - W. Somerset Maugham**_

There were birds singing somewhere above him. They were quite loud- in fact, they were too loud. A cool breeze played across his face, gentle and very sweet-smelling; it carried the scent of greenery on it. A droplet of water hit the tip of his nose. He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to alleviate the strain of having to adjust from blackness to daylight.

Daylight?

Why was the heather-grey sky opening up above him? Where was the ceiling?

He meant to clear his throat, but burst into a coughing fit as soon as he sucked in a breath of the clean, damp air. Something was wrong, dreadfully, horribly wrong. He felt as though he'd been asleep for ages- that feeling that he'd occasionally gotten, sleeping in past noon, but this was different. Amplified. As though he'd literally slept for years.

He realized that his glasses were missing, but strangely he was clutching his wand very tightly in his right hand. That was a relief, then. He had his wand.

"Accio glasses," he mumbled, and received a shock at hearing his own voice. It sounded so hoarse, so ill-used. Not his voice at all, but someone else's. He cleared his throat. No glasses had come whizzing up to him. "Accio glasses!" he said loudly, and waited. Still nothing. Quite irritated at being outside and without his spectacles, James Potter sat up and studied his blurry surroundings. He held his wand out and made one more go of it, his voice raised to almost shouting level. "Accio glasses!"

His glasses hit him square in the face and settled on his nose crookedly. The lenses were cracked and dirty. Odd. "Reparo," he murmured, and was delighted to see his specs fixed immediately. At the very least, his magic seemed to be in order. The mild panic in his chest settled briefly, but flared into full-on terror as he took his bearings.

His house.

He was sitting amidst a pile of rubble, the remnants of a cottage. His cottage. And he was quite alone, he realized with horror.

His memory finally kicked in, and he staggered to his feet, wincing as his spine gave an almighty wrench and settled back into place. His throat constricted and his chest tightened mercilessly as he gasped for air, his eyes taking in the destruction that lay all around him. He knew, somehow, just knew, that something truly dreadful had happened here, for all he remembered was blind panic as the wards began to ring the alarm and his wife scooped little Harry up in her arms, her face white as a sheet, her brilliant green eyes frightened. He remembered shouting at her, though he couldn't recall the words, and he remembered the sweat breaking out like a rash on his forehead as he went to the door and threw it open, knowing what would greet him there, knowing he was going to die.

An incantation, and horrible sickly green light filling his eyes, filling his brain.

James rushed towards the general area that had once been his son's nursery. A mouldy, dirty rag on the ground... the remains of a cherished blue blanket patterned with dancing unicorns. The unicorns had long since stopped their cheery prancing, and were still, lifeless on the fabric. He picked the ratty old blanket up and held it to his chest, a reminder that his son had existed, at some point. He had been real.

James became aware of a horrible noise coming out of his throat, a dreadful moan that slipped unconsciously from his lips and filled the eerie quiet around him.

His boy. His baby boy.

The moan escalated, growing despite the fact that James was hardly conscious of himself- he seemed to have left his body, and was drifting up into the air, away from all of this. It was a relief, he thought dreamily, as the moaning grew into outright shrieking. The sound of his own voice raised to a frightening decibel brought him slamming back down to earth, back inside himself, and a powerful rage gripped him as he fell to his knees, hardly feeling the pain that the impact surely must have caused.

He screamed. He screamed at the tattered blanket, he screamed at the sky, he screamed at the ground. He shrieked and shrieked until his throat was raw and aching, and only when he could no longer scream did he realize that he was crying, and it was raining, and he couldn't tell if the damp on his cheeks were from tears or rain. He found he didn't care. The world was a cold, cruel, evil place. He wanted to fall back into blackness, or even better, to wake up and realize it had all been a horrible dream.

"Harry," he moaned, his hands twisting around the blanket so tightly his knuckles began to turn white. He didn't even notice. "Harry..."

His hair plastered to his head, dirty, mangy robes now soaked through, James staggered to his feet and looked around once more. He could not, for the life of him, fathom how this had happened. How his life, his beautiful (though precarious) life had vanished, replaced by rubble.

"All right there?"

He spun around, and realized too late that he still had his wand in his hand. A muggle in a uniform and clutching a large black umbrella regarded him with slight suspicion, but also pity. James trembled. He did not know how long this man had been standing there. He did not know how much this man had heard. Had James done or said anything incriminating, anything that marked him out plainly as a wizard? Why did this man look at him with something akin to understanding? Most of all, why did it matter what the damn muggle thought or knew or didn't know? Harry was gone. Nothing mattered. Perfect little Harry, with his chubby cheeks and shock of thick hair that Lily just could not get under control. His perfect little fingers, the way they curled around the much larger fingers of his father. His gurgling laughter. Gone.

"You must be one of them," the muggle said knowingly. He was an elderly man, perhaps in his late fifties.

"Pardon?" The instinct- bred into James and instilled in him since before he could talk- to hide his world from any and all muggles still managed to cling to him, despite the excruciating pain of loss and the shock of it all. Common sense still ruled. He played dumb.

"Aye, I've seen your lot around here before. Most of them don't go that far in, though. They just stand at the doorway. Some of 'em laugh, some of 'em cry. Some of 'em curse God for allowing it to happen." The muggle scratched his head. "Damned if I know what actually happened, though."

James blinked the tears from his eyes and slowly approached this stranger. "What... you don't know what happened, you say?"

"Me? Naw. I've heard rumours, mind. Plenty of rumours." Seeing the look on his face, the muggle went on. "They say there used to be a family here. A young couple n' their kid. But they was murdered. Yonks ago now, mind. Well over ten years. Must've been important people, too, from what I've heard. People are always showin' up, saying how they just want to see where it all happened, how it all ended. Like I said, just rumours."

James turned away from this man. He was crazy. Over ten years... why, he and Lily had bought this cottage from an elderly couple that had lived here all their lives. No young family had lived here for decades. Except his. And his family was...

Oh...

"Sorry," he said slowly, turning back to the muggle, "but did you say... ten years? More than ten years ago?"

"Yeah, that's right. I'm gettin' old," the muggle chuckled.

"This... place... it's been like this for that long? I mean, destroyed like this?"

"Yeah. Blimey, I thought you was one of them people who knew all about it. Anyway, I've got the post to deliver. You take care."

James shook his head infinitesimally. This must be a dream, he decided as he watched the retreating postman. A bizarre dream. But it couldn't possibly be a dream, part of his mind reasoned. The glowing red eyes that gazed at him, cruel and victorious, the chilling voice, the ghastly green light. He had not dreamt all that. And so he couldn't be dreaming this.

Whether it was a dream or not, his mind pinpointed the thing he needed to do now, the thing that surely would ease the agony in his chest. His right hand found its way to his wand once more. He was no more conscious of the steady downpour- a cold autumn rain that had by this point completely drenched him- than he was of the blanket he still held in his left hand

Wormtail.

The birds, undisturbed by the rain, continued to sing.

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><p>It took every ounce of strength he possessed to apparate into Hogsmeade. Reality had finally begun to smooth the ragged edges of his mind, to push him back into place, into himself, and he'd quickly abandoned the desire to find Peter Pettigrew and skin him alive. For now. He would come back to that. First he needed to see Dumbledore. For surely, if there was any sanity left in this horrible world, it lay with the Headmaster.<p>

His feet took on a life of their own, operating outside of conscious thought, and they carried him up to the gates of Hogwarts. He staggered up the stairs to the castle, his wand still held very tightly in his one hand, his dead son's blanket in the other.

The still, quiet air of Hogwarts further soothed his mind. He was coming back to himself. A great rush of relief seemed to swell in him, seeping into his bones like a delicious warmth. James became aware of his body, and the miseries that accompanied that awareness. He ached. Everywhere. His hair was sopping wet, his robes were soaking, his shoes, muddy from the trek to the castle, made soft sucking noises as he hauled himself through the Great Hall, which was eerily quiet and empty.

Hogwarts had not changed. James had no trouble finding his way to Albus Dumbledore's office. The stone gargoyle presented a problem.

"Move," he said, again aware of the hoarseness in his voice.

The gargoyle remained cold, hard, and unresponsive.

"Please move."

Granite eyes stared past him, uncaring and unrelenting.

"Bat bogeys! Snuffbox! Chamber music! Bowling ball!" He was losing it again, he realized, but the horrible part of it was that he could do nothing; he was powerless against the wave of mania that swept through him. More tears were forming in his eyes, tears of fury.

"Ahem."

James waved his hand over his shoulder, not bothering to look around. "I need to see the Headmaster!" he cried, and began to beat his fists against the hateful gargoyle's face. He punched at it until his knuckles were bloody and raw, until a softly muttered charm sent a calming sensation through his limbs. He slumped to the floor in a heap of filthy robes.

"Sometimes we cannot see what is in front of us," a gentle and very familiar voice said, "and other times we cannot see what is behind us. Both are grave and unfortunate mistakes."

James lifted his head and looked over his shoulder, then up at Albus Dumbledore. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and he launched himself at the man's feet. "Headmaster." It came out raw and serrated; he sobbed raggedly.

Dumbledore knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, James."

The tears came in torrents now, as James registered his own name in someone else's voice. "Headmaster," he repeated, his voice broken and harsh.

"It's been a while. Refresh my memory, James. Your middle name?"

"Malcolm."

"Your position on the Gryffindor quidditch team?"

"Captain. Chaser."

"And the nickname used by your three closest friends at this school?"

"Prongs." His voice cracked.

"And if you would kindly illustrate to me why you were given that nickname?"

It occurred to James, finally, that Dumbledore might not believe he was actually James Potter. And why not? If it had been more than ten years... but surely... impossible. He banished such thoughts. They would only drive him mad, if he wasn't already. It did not bear thinking about. He slipped into the transformation easily- it was like breathing- then turned back into a man. As overwrought as he was, he did not miss the audible gasp Dumbledore gave. And there was somebody else crying now. Arms wrapped around him and pulled him close, a warm, welcoming embrace. Sanity. Finally. He clung to it, clung to his old headmaster, though he held on to his wand and Harry's blanket for dear life.

"James Potter." Dumbledore's voice sounded incredulous, but hopeful. Painfully hopeful. "You've come back to us."

Before he could stop himself, James let out an agonized wail. "My son!" he screamed at Dumbledore, clambering to his feet and staggering away from the man. "My son is dead! You were supposed to help us! Help us keep him safe! He's dead! What does it matter if I'm back?"

Dumbledore looked genuinely shocked. Then, inexplicably, his eyes twinkled. James wanted to rip those eyes right out of their sockets. He wondered how he hadn't done it yet. What force held him back, when he so wanted to kill this man for mocking his pain?

"James, you have much to catch up on. Harry is alive and well."

James nearly wailed again, but stopped. He had heard wrongly. Because...

"Yes James. Your son is alive. In fact," Dumbledore checked his watch, "he is on his way to Hogwarts as we speak."

His voice had left him. He stared at Dumbledore, speechless, his muddled brain slowly putting the pieces together- the headmaster's shock, the twinkle in his eyes, the way he spoke of Harry with the ease of familiarity. Ten years, at least... so then... He did the math. Maybe...

"Year?" he whispered. "What year is he in?"

"Harry will be starting his fifth year." Dumbledore pulled a hanky from his pocket and dabbed the tears from his eyes. He regarded James warmly, though his face was quite pale. "Far too old for blankets," he added gently, "but I'm sure he will appreciate the sentiment."

James looked down at the blanket clutched so tightly in his hand. Harry...alive. A young man by now. Fifteen. His heart squeezed painfully, though it was a different kind of pain; not the deep, maddening agony, but the pain of relief, of hope. James found his voice, though it wavered when he spoke. "Does he... he still needs a father, right?"

Dumbledore chuckled weakly and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Of course he needs a father. He's only fifteen. Still a child in many ways. Though he's been forced to grow up faster than most."

His heart squeezed so tightly he was certain it would burst. Fifteen... he had missed his son's childhood. He had missed teaching Harry how to fly, how to ride a bicycle. Fourteen birthdays, Christmas, Halloween... but James did not want to think about Halloween..."Lily?"

Dumbledore's expression turned sombre. "Lily was murdered by Voldemort. I'm sorry, James." The hand on his shoulder gripped him harder. "But we must go to the hospital wing. You need medical attention, I think. For shock, and we must get you out of those soggy old robes."

Dimly he allowed Dumbledore to lead him to the hospital wing. He was becoming aware once more of how awful he felt, physically. His hands were dripping blood where he'd skinned his knuckles raw. His stomach felt oddly sore, and he realized he was beyond hungry- starving, in fact.

Madam Pomfrey looked much the same as he remembered her; a no-nonsense woman that nonetheless gave off an air of motherly concern. She shrieked when he walked into the hospital wing.

"James Potter!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said lightly.

James realized he must be missing something, for Dumbledore and Pomfrey to act so shocked to see him. Yes, he was missing something, an integral part of this puzzle. It eluded him. "Why... why are you so shocked to see me?" he asked Madam Pomfrey. She gaped at him, then at Dumbledore, before pressing on bravely.

"Well, James... I mean... heavens, you've been dead for... for fourteen years..."

Again he felt himself begin to unravel. It took a great deal of effort to keep calm, to keep his sanity intact. He didn't care to spiral back into the dark place that was tinged red, where his emotions took over, raw and savage. It was a testament to Madam Pomfrey's excellent character that she simply ordered him to sit down and began to fuss over his hands. "You've been fighting, have you?" she asked sharply.

"A scuffle with a gargoyle," Dumbledore said, regarding James over his half-moon spectacles.

"You should see the gargoyle." James allowed her to pry his wand from his hand, but the blanket he refused to let go of. The matron gave him a severe look and handed him a set of clean blue robes.

"Shower," she said. "You're filthy."

James had recovered himself enough to be offended, but he saw her point. He'd dragged a considerable amount of mud in with him, and he became aware of a rather rotten smell that seemed to be coming from himself. Obediently he went into the bathroom and stripped his soaking, tattered robes off, then climbed into the shower and turned it on. The jet of hot water revitalized him; he stood in the shower, very still, his head hung low as water pounded against the back of his neck, working the stiffness out of his muscles. Mud and blood mixed with the water as it went down the drain. James washed his hair, his body, and the blanket he still held. It seemed to have become a part of him, an extension of his hand. He looked down at it, and his mind began to spin.

Harry. Fifteen. Walking, talking, going to Hogwarts... He wondered what his son was like. What did Harry talk about? Did he have many friends? Did he get good marks in school? James was deeply comforted by the knowledge that Harry must surely be in good hands, raised by Sirius. Yes, Sirius would have made a good father. Harry had loved his godfather as an infant... but did he call Sirius "Dad?"

His thoughts were cycling around in his mind so fast he was becoming dizzy and sick, and James found he had to withdraw himself from all of it just to finish showering and get dressed. He put his glasses on, looked at his reflection in the mirror, and received a very nasty shock. The man looking back at him was not young. Not in his early twenties. He looked... old. His hair still refused to be tamed into a respectable style, and it was still black- he searched rather frantically for any trace of grey, but was enormously relieved to find none. Still, there were faint lines around his eyes, the beginnings of crow's feet, and absolutely no trace of boyish roundness in his face.

But of course, if Harry was fifteen, then he, James had to be... thirty-five.

He brushed his teeth, then rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Stubble was beginning to grow on his chin. He would have to shave... But it could wait. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey studied him with interest.

"Much better," Madam Pomfrey said, though she frowned when her eyes fell on the now-clean blanket. She pointed at it with her wand and muttered a drying spell.

"Thanks," James said weakly. He sat down on a nearby bed. Madam Pomfrey forced a cup of tea into his hands.

"There's nothing in it," she said firmly when he sniffed at the steaming liquid. "It's just tea."

"Pity," James mumbled. "Could do with a shot of Ogden's."

Dumbledore smiled. "Excellent idea." He waved his wand and a tall bottle of deep amber liquid appeared in his hand. He gave it to James and watched, his eyes twinkling, as the younger man unscrewed the lid and took a deep drink.

Tears sprang to his eyes as the liquid seared its way down his throat and into his stomach, burning his insides rather mercilessly. And then finally, at long last, his chest began to loosen up, and for the first time in hours (or years, his mind supplied for him) James found himself able to breathe once more. "Better," he said, and his voice sounded much more recognizable, stronger and unwavering.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm afraid I must leave you now, James, as it is getting on," he glanced at his watch, "and the students will be wanting their feast. Not even I would dare come between them and their first meal at Hogwarts." He stood and looked down at James, his eyes now filled with relief. "I believe the Ministry will want to interrogate you, but that can wait until tomorrow..."

"My son," James said quickly. "Can I... see him? Headmaster...? I want to see Harry..."

Dumbledore held up a hand. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Yes, of course, but give the boy a chance to eat and socialize with his schoolmates, James. He's in for more of a shock than you are, I daresay."

"Okay," he sighed, content for now to know that his son would soon be close by. But would Harry recognize him? Would James recognize his own son? Surely he would...yet what if he didn't...?

Madam Pomfrey clucked, drawing his attention out of himself. Dumbledore had left. "James Potter. Well," she mused, her hands going automatically to her hips. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"Food," James said immediately, for he was just now imagining how wonderful it would be if he could go down to the Great Hall, sit at Gryffindor table, and eat himself into a coma. Yes, that would be lovely indeed.

"So you _are_ James Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, and laughed. James merely stared at her. She huffed and pulled her wand out, and a plate of food appeared, hovering front of James. He seized it, grabbed the fork that also hung in the air, and began to wolf down his meal.

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><p>Harry slumped forward in his seat, his elbows on the table in front of him. He was tired, and though it felt wonderful to be back at Hogwarts, absolutely wonderful, he simply was not in the mood to have other students give him odd, sidelong glances of concern and even mild fear.<p>

Harry knew what they were thinking. That he was mad. Touched in the head.

"Look, there's no Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher!" Hermione whispered, nodding at the high table. Harry lifted his head wearily and scanned the table. Hermione was right. There were no new teachers there- all were familiar faces.

"Maybe Dumbledore's going to teach this year," Ron suggested. "You know, with... you-know-who back..."

"Don't be silly, Ron, Professor Dumbledore's got to be far too busy to be a teacher," Hermione answered breezily.

All through the Sorting, and through Dumbledore's speech, Harry stared off into space. Once, his eyes drifted over to Cho Chang at the Ravenclaw table, who was watching him, as many others were, though her gaze was quite different. She looked concerned. But as soon as Harry caught her eye, she flashed him a brief smile and looked away. He saw her cheek turn rather pink.

"Food!" Ron cried.

Harry loaded his plate with everything within arms' reach- mashed potatoes, carrots, roasted parsnips, ham. He had three helpings of Sheppard's pie.

"Harry, you're going to be sick!" Hermione whispered in alarm.

"Hungry," he muttered, draining his goblet of pumpkin juice. In truth, he simply wanted to be done with all this, so he could curl up in his own bed in Gryffindor tower and go to sleep.

At long last, just as his eyelids were beginning to droop and his stomach began to feel alarmingly tight, Dumbledore stood and ushered them off to bed. Harry stumbled along with the rest of Gryffindor, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Harry. One moment, if you will." It was Dumbledore. He seemed oddly excited, his blue eyes twinkling more than ever.

"Okay," Harry sighed, his shoulders sagging. He couldn't fathom what Dumbledore wanted. It was getting on, and he had classes in the morning... He watched as the Great Hall slowly emptied. Some of the staff was looking at Dumbledore curiously.

"Headmaster," Professor McGonagall said rather sharply, "Potter has class in the morning."

"Oh, I don't think Harry will be attending his classes tomorrow," Dumbledore answered quietly. Harry looked up at the tall old wizard, confused.

"Professor, it's the first day of school... I have to go. I have OWLs this year."

"I'm very glad to know you value your education, Harry, but there is something we must discuss, and I am afraid it simply cannot wait until tomorrow. No," Dumbledore mused, apparently getting lost in thought, "best to get it over with, I believe."

Harry felt the first flutter of unease in his stomach, though it might have been the extra helping of dessert he'd had. "Am I in trouble?" he asked quickly.

"No, no. To the Hospital Wing, Harry. I would explain it to you if I could, but it is something that must be seen, to be believed..." Dumbledore trailed off. Harry had never seen the Headmaster like this before. He seemed eager, but apprehensive. He kept glancing at Harry, his eyes reflecting an odd mixture of concern and excitement.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so much to all who left feedback! In no particular order-**

**Fluidity of Ink, I hope you love this chapter as well. Thank you for reading!**

**Serenitylove07, I warn you that it's going to be some serious slow-burn on any romance. But it will be there. In time, all in good time, I promise you.**

**Jujulicia, thank you for the review! Brazil... You have no idea how envious I am. I live in Canada. Enough said.**

**B-Mine, you make an excellent point. I'll give you a hint... it's probably a good thing, a very good thing, that only one person has been resurrected. Not a good hint, I know. Thank you for the review!**

**Smithback, short and sweet. Just how I like it!**

**Moonbeam, I hope you like this chapter.**

**., yes, you will have to wait and see. I hope you are patient!**

**And to all of my readers, you are appreciated. Now on with it.**

**Kisses**

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><p><strong>Chapter #2<strong>

"**Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. **

**Be grateful it happens in that order." - David Gerrold**

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><p>Dumbledore stopped Harry outside the hospital wing. He seemed more nervous now than excited.<p>

"Harry," he said quietly. "I know this will come as a shock to you, as it should, but I must ask you to... keep your head, please."

"Er..." Harry said. He wondered briefly if maybe Dumbledore might believe he actually was mentally unstable. No. He dismissed the idea. "Why would I lose it?"

"This will be a dreadful shock," Dumbledore said, and Harry felt the first faint glimmer of fear in his chest. "I understand if you do or say something that is out of your character. But Harry, you must trust me. You must trust my judgement. And you must trust yourself."

"Professor," Harry said, now truly alarmed, "what's going on?"

"Come inside. I would like you to meet somebody," Dumbledore answered gently, and opened the hospital wing door. Harry stepped in. He didn't really know what to expect. His mind immediately began to spout wild fantasies- a sibling? A cousin? Grandparents? Why was he thinking about relatives? His family was all dead. He knew that.

Harry looked around. Madam Pomfrey was sitting beside a tall, bespectacled man with untidy raven hair and hazel eyes that seemed naturally mischievous. He had a kind, good-natured face, but there was an air of something dreadful about him- Harry recognized it immediately. He looked haunted, as Sirius had looked the night Harry had met him in the shrieking shack.

The man stared at Harry. Harry stared back. Neither moved.

He was looking at his dead father.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Harry?" he said gently.

His stomach had done something odd- it seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. He felt suddenly faint, disoriented. Any desire he'd had to go to sleep was gone, and Harry became aware of the fact that his breath was coming in slow and ragged gasps. His chest was heaving. His vision blurred.

Harry opened his mouth, and vomited all over his shoes.

The man who looked so much like his father jumped to his feet, but Dumbledore held up a hand, an order for him to stay back.

"Give him a moment, James."

Shaking uncontrollably, Harry wiped the string of vomit from his lips onto the sleeve of his clean school robes. He slowly raised his eyes to look once more at this man.

Hazel eyes met his, and the look that the man was giving him sent an alien sensation coursing through Harry's body. Nobody had ever looked at him like that, not Sirius, not Dumbledore, none of the adults in his life. And yet, Harry had the bizarre feeling that he recognized that look, that those same eyes had gazed at him in that same manner before. He blinked and turned to Dumbledore. His voice had left him, and when he opened his mouth nothing came out. He felt robbed, and oddly powerless. He glanced from Dumbledore to his father, his mouth moving silently.

"Harry," the man said softly.

Harry stared at him. He knew that voice, as he knew the look in those familiar hazel eyes. He tried to speak again, but only managed to make a strangled little noise in his throat.

"I believe introductions are unnecessary," Dumbledore said, and despite it all he sounded rather amused. His hand rested on Harry's back, and he gave him a little nudge. "Go on, Harry. Your father would like to meet you."

"My dad is dead." Finally his voice had returned. He looked up at Dumbledore. "Sir... you said..."

"I have been proven wrong before," Dumbledore said firmly.

Part of Harry's mind was screaming at him, screaming that it was impossible, no magic could resurrect the dead; this was either a cruel joke, a hallucination, or the man was an imposter. But another part of his mind, ruled not by thought but rather by instinct, had already decided that yes, this was James Potter, his father. On a deep and biological level, Harry knew it to be true.

His father was alive.

He took a tentative step forward. His vision blurred once more, this time with tears. "Professor... is he really...?" He trailed off, then decided it was rather rude not to address his father. "You're really... him?"

James Potter scratched the back of his head. Harry recognized that as well; he realized with a rather unsettling jolt that it was a movement he himself made when asked a very serious question. "Yes."

"I believe Harry is going to ask you for proof, James. As well he should." Dumbledore's voice drifted over Harry's head, absurdly calm.

"Of course." James Potter vanished, and Harry was staring at a rather large but slightly thin-looking stag.

"Prongs," he whispered to himself.

His father reappeared. When Harry didn't move or say anything, he sighed. "Not good enough, eh? All right. You've a mole on your left cheek."

Harry touched his cheek.

"Your other left cheek," James Potter added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Harry felt his face flush crimson. He did, in fact, have a mole there... and seeing as how, to his knowledge, nobody had ever seen that particular part of him...

He rushed forward and flung his arms around his father. James hugged him back, and suddenly any remaining doubt and uncertainty drained out of his body; it was being syphoned out as his father held him in the most comforting embrace Harry had ever been given. He meant to say something, but when he opened his mouth a sob escaped his throat, and he broke down, his body going completely limp in his father's arms. James caught him easily and sat him down on the bed, holding onto him as though he feared Harry might simply vanish if he let go. Harry felt tears that were not his own trickle down his cheeks.

"Harry," James Potter whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Shh, Harry... it's all right, sprout... it's all right... I'm here now..."

Harry could not stop shaking unless his father held him very tight. He forced himself to speak. "Dad..."

Again those hazel eyes peered down at him, that concerned look that was so alien and yet so familiar. But mixed with the concern was something else, a deep and powerful relief that sent a tremor up Harry's spine. He wondered what his father had been through, what had happened to him to make him so relieved to see his son. "You look so much like me," he whispered, tousling Harry's hair gently. His eyes fell on the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead.

"I know," Harry said. The cold fury in his father's eyes startled him.

James touched his scar gently, tracing it with his finger. His eyes softened once more. "But you have-"

"My mother's eyes," Harry finished for him with a weak grin. He'd heard it so very often.

James laughed. He had a pleasant laugh, smooth and deep. Harry had never felt quite as safe as he did now, sitting with his father. The greatest relief he'd ever known suddenly filled him, washing away every negative feeling he'd ever had. Everything would be okay. He had his father.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Harry looked over at the Headmaster. "You two have much to catch up on," he said, his blue eyes twinkling but also gleaming with barely held-back tears. "If you like, Harry, we can give the two of you some privacy."

"Okay," Harry said.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and stood up. She too had tears in her eyes. "Very well. But the both of you ought to get at least _some_ sleep tonight. I will fetch a sleeping draught." They left Harry and James alone.

"Harry," his father said, his voice suddenly curious. "Tell me... how is your godfather getting on? Do you like living with him? He hasn't spoiled you, has he?"

Harry had not been prepared for this. James Potter didn't know that his best friend had been framed by Wormtail. He didn't know that Harry had been raised by the Dursleys. "Err... Dad... well, Sirius is doing all right," he answered, his throat constricting. He didn't want to be the one to tell his father this.

James looked startled. "He... you don't call him...? Have you always called him Sirius?"

Harry's heart gave a painful lurch in his chest. "Dad... I've never lived with Sirius. Except for this summer, because Sirius is letting the Order use his house as headquarters. The Order of the Phoenix," he said weakly, searching his father's face for a reaction. His hazel eyes went suddenly blank, then confused.

"But Harry... Sirius is your godfather. You should have been sent to him, when... when you had no parents."

"I know," Harry said swiftly. "It's not his fault. Sirius was... he was in Azkaban. The Dursleys raised me."

"_What_? The Dursleys? No." James got to his feet and began pacing the length of the hospital ward. "You mean that great beefy muggle that Petunia married?"

"Yeah," Harry said, and his father let out a string of very rude expletives.

"Why, for Christ's sake? Why would Dumbledore let those people take you in? I thought he knew me better... he could have given you to Remus, or the Longbottoms, they would have gladly... without question..."

"Well..." Harry began, but James appeared to be quite beside himself, and burst into more angry babble.

"Given over to muggles... unbelievable... completely unbelievable... Dumbledore should have... I say..."

"Dad, it's okay," Harry said quickly.

"Sirius is in Azkaban?" James asked, his voice growing quiet.

"Err...not anymore."

"What did he do?"

Harry swallowed. He looked up at his father, desperately wishing he didn't have to answer this question. "Dad... he was framed... by Wormtail. He faked his own death and made it look like Sirius had killed him."

His father's face was very hard to read. He seemed calm enough, but Harry could see a blood vessel throbbing near his temple. "That would be a life sentence," he said softly. "But Sirius is out of Azkaban? How?"

"He broke out."

To Harry's surprise, James laughed. "Sirius broke out of Azkaban. Nobody's ever done that... I imagine he's been the only one... Well, if anybody could pull that off, it would be him."

"Yeah," Harry said, relieved to see his father smiling again. "Yeah, he broke out two years ago. Everyone thought he wanted to kill me, because nobody knew you'd made the switch. Even Dumbledore thought Sirius had betrayed you. He's a wanted criminal."

James shook his head. "How could anyone believe that? Sirius, betray me? And... he would never hurt you. Sirius adores you."

The realization hit Harry like a punch to the gut. Sirius could have his name cleared now. James could tell the world what had really happened. "You can help him, Dad. Get his name cleared."

"Who had him put in Azkaban?"

"Crouch. He didn't even give Sirius a trial." Harry had only learned this last year.

"Of course he didn't. But all the same... Sirius, a dark wizard? Of course... being a Black probably didn't help his public image. The Blacks have always had a... colourful reputation." James ran his hand through his unruly hair. "Dumbledore is taking me to the Ministry tomorrow. I'll make damn sure Sirius is a free man by tomorrow night," he added vehemently.

Harry felt as though a great weight had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. Sirius would be cleared. He would be able to finally leave Grimmauld Place, the house he hated so much, and be free to wander wherever he pleased. He would be free to help the Order in more ways than simply giving them a headquarters. "I thought he was one of Voldemort's followers too."

James shook his head slowly, as though shaking unwanted thoughts from his mind. "You must have hated him."

"Yeah, I did." Harry remembered all too well the overwhelming anger he'd felt, staring at Sirius in the Shrieking Shack. Anger so powerful it almost turned him into a murderer.

James seemed to sense Harry's guilt, because he slapped Harry's shoulder, his face suddenly brightening. "Never mind that. Tell me about yourself, Harry."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," his father said promptly. "Do you like Hogwarts? How are your grades? Do you get into much trouble? Tell me about your friends. Do you play quidditch? Please tell me you play quidditch, Harry."

Harry laughed. The amount of questions being hurled at him was astounding. He was quite used to people taking an interest in him, of course, but never like this. His father didn't want to know _about_ him. He wanted to know _him_. "I love Hogwarts. My grades are... okay, I guess. Except for Potions , because Snape hates me so much..."

"Snape? That greasy git? He teaches here?" James asked, visibly horrified.

"Er, yeah."

Another round of rude profanity burst from his father's mouth. "Bloody Snape," he finished breathlessly.

"Yeah. And... I don't really get into trouble. I don't have to. Trouble usually finds _me_."

James laughed. "Oh dear. Anything exciting?"

Harry grinned. He had a story or two that would definitely be classified as exciting. "Well, in first year Ron and Hermione and I fought a mountain troll."

"Ron? Hermione?"

"My best friends. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They're amazing, Dad. Wait til you meet them... they've always stuck by me, no matter what. Ron's the best. He's always sticking his neck out for me. He always takes things in stride. And Hermione... well, she's the smartest student at Hogwarts. She figured out Lupin was a werewolf before any of us knew."

"Lupin? Remus Lupin?"

"Yeah, he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts during my third year. He's brilliant. He taught me how to do the Patronus charm."

"Remus was a teacher? Here? Blimey," James scratched his head, "I'd give my left arm to see that. Do you play quidditch, Harry?"

"Yeah, I do. I'm the Seeker for Gryffindor." Harry felt a tingle of excitement at the mention of quidditch. "Wait until you see my broom, Dad. Sirius got it for me in third year. I didn't know it was from him, of course, and it sort of caused an uproar, because everyone thought Sirius was out to kill me. But anyway, it's a Firebolt! It's the fastest broom in the world."

"Bloody hell, Harry." James reached under the hospital bed and pulled out a slim bottle of amber liquid. "Bloody hell," he repeated, conjuring a shot glass with a wave of his wand and filling it to the brim with amber liquid. He downed the contents, screwed up his face, and shook his head. Harry felt a jolt of concern for his father. The man seemed rather lost, uncertain what to do with his hands. Not that Harry blamed him. Waking up after being dead for nearly fourteen years surely wasn't easy on the mind.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

James scratched his head. "I suppose." His eyes strayed to Harry's forehead. "If only we hadn't done the switch," he said softly.

Harry felt a painful twinge in his chest, a sympathetic pang for his father. Everything would have been different if his parents hadn't trusted Peter Pettigrew. If they'd stuck with Sirius. "You couldn't have known he was a spy."

"I didn't think any of my friends... Maybe that makes me naive." James frowned, poured himself another shot, and tossed the liquor down his throat. "I couldn't imagine not trusting my friends."

Harry decided that action needed to be taken immediately. He steered the conversation back to quidditch, and the change that came over his father was remarkable. That lost look vanished, he became animated and lively, and his cheeks had colour again. The firewhiskey had certainly helped loosen him up, and it didn't take very long at all for both of them to be chatting like they'd known each other their whole lives. They talked well into the night, until eventually Harry found his way onto the bed next to his father, where they both slept undisturbed.

* * *

><p>"Wake up!"<p>

Somebody was shaking him quite roughly. Harry came to very slowly, groggy from the sleeping draught he'd taken last night. It was far too early to get out of bed; in fact, it was so early Ron and Hermione were probably just arriving in the Great Hall for breakfast. He closed his eyes, unwilling to rise and face the day. "Too early..."

"Wake up, Harry, or you'll miss breakfast."

"Think I'll sleep til lunch," he mumbled.

"I think not, you'll miss your morning classes."

Something poked him in the stomach, and he received a fairly unpleasant electrical shock. "Aghh!" he groaned, rolling out of bed and just barely managing to land on his feet. "What...? Dad, I don't have to go to classes today."

His father's expression became severe, and Harry decided that such a look didn't suit James Potter at all. "Sorry Harry. You wanted a father, now you've got one, and this father says you are not missing school because of him." The corner of his mouth twitched. Harry realized he was trying valiantly to keep a straight face.

"You probably skived off classes all the time."

"That's quite beside the point. Anyhow, do you want to be unemployed and single at thirty-five?" James disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Harry free to sit back down on the bed. Ron and Hermione would think he really had lost his mind when he told them his father was alive and well. He entertained that possibility for a moment. Maybe he'd suffered a psychotic break last night and this was all a delusion.

James came back and crossed his arms over his chest when he saw Harry sitting down.

"I guess I should go get ready for school," he said, hoping to change his father's mind.

"Not to worry." James waved his wand, and Harry was wearing his school robes. "I had your book bag sent down to the Great Hall as well. A house-elf named Dobby- he went a bit bonkers over the whole thing. Strangest elf I've ever met."

"Oh," Harry said, disappointed. He was so tired that he couldn't imagine how he would manage to stay awake through all of his classes, but if his father wanted him to attend, he would. "Dobby used to be the Malfoys' house-elf, but I tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving him a sock, and now he works in the kitchens here."

James stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

"Mr. Potter, may I remind you that this is a hospital wing!" Madam Pomfrey seemed to appear out of nowhere to frown at both of them disapprovingly. "And what are you doing up?" she asked Harry.

"Going to class," he said, trying his best not to sound sulky.

"Well, good for you. Off you go, then."

"I'll see you at lunch, son." James ruffled his already messy hair as Madam Pomfrey shooed him out.

Harry stumbled tiredly down to the Great Hall, where he picked out Ron and Hermione arguing lightly over breakfast. "Are you two fighting already?" he asked, slumping down in his seat and loading his plate with bacon and fried potatoes.

"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione handed him his book bag and a copy of their new timetable. "We stayed up last night waiting for you."

Harry swallowed a mouthful of food, looked at both of his friends, and shrugged. "Hospital wing," he said, continuing to shove his breakfast down his throat as quickly as possible. Classes started in ten minutes. "What do we have first?"

"Transfiguration, go figure," said Ron, abandoning his argument with Hermione. "What were you doing in the hospital wing? What did Dumbledore want?"

"You don't look well," Hermione fretted.

"I'm fine. I was visiting someone." He hadn't a clue how to go about telling them.

Ron waited for a more thorough explanation, and when Harry didn't deliver, he shared a confused look with Hermione. "Well? Who were you visiting?"

Harry sighed. "A family member. Look, I'll tell you guys later, okay? I'm sort of half asleep here."

"A family member? I thought you didn't have any..." Hermione trailed off when Harry gave her a pleading look, but her eyes took on a determined gleam. "Harry, what's going on?"

"Hey, there's no teacher for Defence," he said, now almost desperate to distract them. They would think he'd gone mad. "Did I miss something last night? Did Dumbledore say anything about it?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, but it's on our timetable. We have Defence Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday." She bit her lip, obviously debating on whether or not she should pursue her questioning Harry. But the thought of classes distracted her thoroughly, and she studied her timetable once more. "We've got Potions this afternoon as well."

"Lovely way to start the week," Ron muttered.

Harry turned his head to glance at the high table. Snape sat where he always did, looking sour and sallow. He seemed to be moving the food on his plate around with his fork, not so much eating as he was poking at it. It seemed Professor Dumbledore hadn't shared the news with any of the staff yet, as they were all going about their business as usual. How would Snape react? Would he treat Harry even worse than he already did? Or perhaps, Harry thought with a grin, Snape would ignore him altogether with his father around.

* * *

><p>It would be thorough and unpleasant. That was about all Madam Pomfrey could tell him. James had half a mind to slip out of the hospital wing and out onto the grounds. From his seat in the windowsill he could see Hagrid's hut, a welcoming curl of smoke rising out of the chimney. Oh, a belt with Hagrid would be nice right about now. It was a damn shame, all this Ministry business. Apparently being dead really drew up a lot of red tape. Diagnostics, paperwork, and on and on and on. And he just wanted a short jaunt in the bright autumn morning.<p>

More than that, though, he wanted to be with his son. Harry. He felt so conflicted, so pulled in two entirely different directions. Harry was fifteen years old, and obviously could take care of himself. And that was good. Wonderful, in fact. James had never felt so... proud, and elated, in all his life. His son was a clever, talented boy who understood that rules were often simply recommendations.

There was a flip-side, though. He worried for Harry. He felt an aching concern. The world was a dangerous place. So much could go wrong. So many things could hurt the young wizard. And people. Wicked, evil people. Friends who weren't friends at all, but backstabbers, liars, cowards...

He opened the window and let the cool morning air in. Behind the cloth curtain that gave him some privacy he could hear voices and see the faint silhouettes of Ministry people, bureaucrats and probably the Minister himself, a man named Fudge. Whoever the bloody hell that was. Cornelius Fudge, apparent thorn in poor Dumbledore's side. James had gotten the inside scoop on the rise of Voldemort, though it had pained him to hear Harry talk about such terrible things with startling familiarity. Fifteen, and he had seen too much of the world. At that age James had been concerned with a select few things- quidditch, his friends, and Lily Evans.

He cut down that train of thought instantly. He was getting good at that. It was surprisingly easy. That disturbed him.

The curtain was drawn back, and a collective gasp went up, as though his audience was viewing a rare creature on display in a zoo. James hopped down from the windowsill and extended his hand to the wizard with the purple bowling hat. He put on his very best pompous airs. "Minister Fudge, right? Pleasure, sir. Pleasure to meet you."


	3. Chapter 3

** A/N: The second half of this chapter seems to have run away on me so I castrated it- that is to say, I cut it off before I blathered on for another twenty minutes.**

**My utmost appreciation to you readers and reviewers. This crack-tale is for you.**

**Much love**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter #3<strong>

"**Those are my principles, and if you **

**don't like them... well, I have others."- Groucho Marx**

It was lunchtime, and Harry was now bordering on hyperactive. This was worrisome. She thought that perhaps all the stress he endured for being Harry Potter had finally gotten to him. That he'd finally gone mad. They sat at the Gryffindor table, her and Ron on one side and Harry on the other, and Hermione went about adding pickles to her ham sandwich while Harry just sat there and stared at Professor Dumbledore. His hyperactivity seemed to be replaced by intense concentration.

Hermione glanced at the headmaster. Everything seemed normal, all of the teachers were behaving as they usually did, yet she had a peculiar feeling that something was about to happen. And indeed, as Ron obliviously wolfed down his lunch and Harry continued to stare at Dumbledore rather impatiently, the headmaster rose and cleared his throat.

The students fell silent instantly. Funny how Dumbledore could do that. Silence a crowd of hungry teenagers.

"Our newly appointed Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher has been delayed. I suggest all of you use the spare time to revise the subject. On a lighter but equally important note, we have a special visitor here at Hogwarts and I would very much like to introduce him to all of you. However, he seems to have skipped off somewhere." Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling like mad.

Harry made an excited noise in his throat.

"What's going on?" Ron asked rather loudly.

"I ask that you please extend to him the hospitality fitting of our fine school. Mister James Potter, wherever he has gone, will be staying indefinitely. I recommend nobody take his advice on shortcuts, secret passages, hidden hallways, and the like. Thank you." Dumbledore sat down.

Harry giggled.

The head table went up in a dull roar of chatter. All of the teachers seemed desperate to talk to the headmaster. Except- Hermione noticed that Hagrid was nowhere to be seen. She turned her head very slowly to look at Harry.

"Erm," Ron said.

"You were visiting your father in the hospital wing last night."

Harry nodded happily, grabbing a ham sandwich and taking an enormous bite out of it. "He said he would see me at lunch... Wonder where he's gone off to?"

"Hagrid isn't here," she said faintly. Theories were beginning to whirl around in her brain. Her hyperactive brain. She really envied Ron his blank, baffled expression, if it was any indication of how he felt. She envied Harry his easy, cheery acceptance, and she hated the doubt rising in her chest. It was impossible, simply impossible. Even magic had laws. There were things one just could not accomplish. The dead were dead. A corpse could not be revived, could not be infused with the... the soul of the person who used to reside in said corpse. And there would have to have been so much complex (impossible!) magic involved. Nerve endings needed reattached, lungs repaired, heart restarted, brain infused with oxygen, blood replaced, and after all that you were lucky to have what muggles called a zombie.

"I can see where you're going," said Harry, "and Hermione, believe me when I tell you I went through every possibility."

"Polyjuice?" she whispered, not bothering to question how he'd known that her brain was spinning so fast she felt dizzy.

"Yes. He showed me his animagus form. Polyjuice can't do that." Harry coughed and grinned. "He gave me incontrovertible evidence that he's my father."

"Erm," Ron said. "I think Snape's having a medical emergency."

Hermione and Harry looked up at the high table. Professor Snape appeared to be having some sort of panic attack. Or possibly an aneurysm. His face had gone very white, except for two spots of colour high on his cheeks, and he was staring vacantly, eyes wide and shell-shocked. Most alarming, he was trembling. He seemed to be almost vibrating at an alarmingly high frequency. Dumbledore leaned over and whispered to him. The surly head of Slytherin appeared to get a grip on himself- he smoothed his hair down with one hand, and blinked several times.

"Bet he'll think twice about insulting me now," Harry muttered darkly.

"Or he'll be twice as likely to jump the gun and lose his temper," Hermione muttered back at him. "Remember when Professor Lupin was here?"

"Maybe they'll get into a duel," Harry continued rather enthusiastically.

Hermione frowned. This was all too much to process... Harry, James Potter, Dumbledore, Professor Snape, Lupin... The thought hit her like a freight train. "Sirius!" she cried.

"Snape's off," Ron said. "There he goes."

Professor Snape was storming across the Great Hall. Hermione felt her stomach begin to twist into little knots. He passed right by them, not even glancing at Harry, who was beginning to look like she felt. Worried and terrified and baffled. Professor Snape was intercepted, however, just short of the entrance hall. He was intercepted by Hagrid.

The Great Hall was suddenly filled with whispers, as though the student body had received a cue to start discussing this surreal news.

"Professor Snape," Hagrid said. He stepped aside, and hidden behind his massive self was a conventionally good-looking, bespectacled man with raven hair that stuck up in the back, seemingly stubborn in its defiance. She knew that hair. She recognized him from Harry's old pictures. Her mind began to whirl once more, only not with suspicion this time, but with concern. James Potter looked so... (frightened?) _lonely_, standing there in front of most of Hogwarts, his old school rival standing in front of him.

"So it's true." His voice, so very real, smooth and confident and alive. "Never thought I'd see you here."

She thought she might be sick. And what was wrong with her? Was she the only one reacting this way? Ron looked a bit pale. Harry looked nervous. Neither of them, none of her fellow Gryffindors, looked ill.

"Duly noted." Professor Snape stood directly in front of the other man, but from her seat Hermione could see them both. The difference between them was marked, so much that it was almost poetic. James Potter had a good three inches in height on Snape, had thick, glossy hair, clear skin, a quite attractive face.

"Go on then." Harry's father drew himself up, his shoulders growing rigid. "Get on with it."

Professor Snape sneered, his trademark expression, and turned his back on James Potter. But only for a moment; apparently on impulse he swung around, his fist flying, and yes, it connected quite solidly with the other man's jaw.

By the time Harry jumped to his feet James Potter had tackled Severus Snape rugby-style, and there was a full-on brawl going on.

"Good heavens!" Professor McGonagall screeched.

"C'mon now!" Hagrid bellowed, "yer not fifteen year olds!" He grabbed each wizard by the scruff of his neck, yanking them apart and holding them in the air. Both were very red in the face, and Snape appeared to be out of breath.

"Just one good crack, Hagrid... It might fix his nose-"

"Potter, I swear to Merlin I will rearrange that pretty face of yours-"

"That's very flattering, Snape, but I don't swing that way." James Potter stopped squirming, and Hagrid released him.

"Break it up," he warned thunderously, releasing the Potions Master as well. "Or I'll deck the both of ya."

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.

Harry had planted himself firmly between Professor Snape and his father.

"Come on." Hermione grabbed Ron by the collar of his robes and hauled him up. Hyper-aware of the whispers- God, everyone was staring and whispering- as they reached the four people crowding in front of the entrance hall, she acknowledged Hagrid with a weak smile.

"Hullo you three."

"You filthy piece of shite," Professor Snape hissed.

"Some teacher you are, eh? Cursing in front of your students," James Potter said quietly. Hermione was impressed by how quickly and efficiently he seemed to get himself under control. It seemed Harry had inherited his hot temper elsewhere, despite what she'd heard.

"How did you do it?" Snape whispered. His eyes were bright, almost feverish.

"If I knew what you were talking about, I would tell you that firstly, it's none of your business, and secondly, if it was your business I still wouldn't tell you."

"Err, Dad?"

"How sweet, a family reunion. Excuse me," Professor Snape breathed, spinning on his heel and striding off to the dungeons with a surprising air of dignity.

"Sorry about that." James Potter scratched his head and smiled, a mischievous grin that lit up his entire face. "Bit of a sore spot there. I'm sure you know the story."

Harry nodded and Ron coughed sympathetically.

"Dad, these are my best friends. Ron and Hermione. Guys, this is my Dad." Harry's chest seemed to swell with pride.

Hermione found herself suddenly squished against James Potter, one quite strong arm wrapped around her shoulders.

"I'd like to take this opportunity to thank both of you for braving friendship with a Potter. We're notorious magnets for trouble, and I'm sure you two are the only reason Harry here is still alive."

She tried to pull away, to regain some semblance of propriety, but failed. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter," she mumbled into his chest.

He released her and Ron, shaking his head, his eyes serious. "I'm not having that, now. You'll call me James, or Potter, or any other colourful moniker you might come up with. But you will not call me Mister. All clear?"

"Erm," Hermione coughed. "Sorry."

"Not to worry." James Potter smoothed the front of his navy robes and winked at Hagrid. "What do you three say to a little stroll down to the kitchens?"

"Merlin's sake, James, I just fed ya!"

The man shrugged amiably and patted his stomach. "Well I'm famished, Hagrid. I haven't eaten in years."

Hermione's whirling mind began to cycle down, the slightly queasy feeling left her belly, and her chest loosened up. It was okay. What had she expected, anyhow? A vampire? A zombie? Some horrid undead creature? James Potter was a living, breathing human, completely organic, and quite funny as well. Everything was okay.

"Excellent. I hate the ham sandwiches," Ron said. And they were off to the kitchens. "Not a word about slavery, mind you," he added, wagging a finger at her.

"For heaven's sake, Ron," she said, frowning at him, "it's barbaric! You have to at least see that it's immoral, and-"

"Shouldn't have brought it up."

"Then why did you?" Oh, she didn't want to get into an argument with Ron, when Harry's father was with them; it was silly and childish, but she felt she had no choice. She needed to defend her interest in house-elf rights, otherwise what was the point?

"Dunno," Ron muttered under his breath. "Bloody spew."

"It's NOT spew! It's S.P.E.W, and-"

"I know what it stands for, I've only heard you go on about it time after time."

"What does it stand for?" James Potter asked. Hermione didn't miss the look Harry and Ron gave him.

"Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare," she said, expecting him to laugh, as nearly everyone did upon hearing the full name of her organization.

"What got you interested in the welfare of house-elves?"

Ron nearly gaped at the man, as though he must be bonkers for being interested in S.P.E.W. Hermione, on the other hand, was thrilled.

"Mr. Crouch, actually. The way he treated his house-elf Winky was awful! He just... got upset with her for no reason and then he dismissed her, when all she did was try to please him! It was appalling."

"Well, Barty Crouch-" James said, glancing at Harry and Ron before looking down at Hermione, "he's no model for human kindness."

"The Malfoys were awful to their house-elf, Dobby. And he enjoys freedom. He even collects wages, which just goes to show that their attitude towards work comes from their upbringing, not from being house-elves."

"The Malfoys are no model for human anything," said Ron. "Anyway, Hermione... you just don't get it. House-elves love what they do. It's..."

"Just the way it is," James finished, and patted Hermione's shoulder. "That doesn't mean it's acceptable."

She gaped at him like an idiot for a moment, then felt a rush of validation. "It's not acceptable," she said, glancing at Ron pointedly, "and I wish more people realized that."

"It's not easy to shrug off a belief you were raised with. House-elves live to serve, the _Daily Prophet_ is a reputable newspaper, goblins are greedy backstabbers." James stopped in front of the painting and ticked the pear, then swung the door open and stepped back to let the three of them in. "I don't suppose any of you got to read my obituary in the _Prophet..._ I wonder if it was any good."

"Bit morbid, isn't that?" Ron whispered to her.

"No idea," Harry said, glancing back at his father.

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "Actually the Prophet did a whole story on-"

Harry's elbow crashed into her ribs and he gave her a warning look. It took her a moment, but she caught on. Of course. James Potter probably didn't want to hear about his death, or the death of his wife.

"Harry Potter!"

"Dobby," Harry said with a grin as the house-elf appeared near his elbow. "I'd like you to meet someone. This is my father."

They had lunch there in the kitchens, and when Hermione grumbled about the welfare of house-elves James Potter leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Maybe a more subversive approach, Hermione."

She mulled that over while Harry and Ron entertained James with stories about their misdeeds and adventures. Sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest and finding giant spiders, going down into the Chamber of Secrets, stealing Mr. Weasley's flying car.

"Well," he said after they'd had a generous amount of food followed by tea, "it's been lovely, you three. But you have class to go to, and I have business at the Ministry- Fudge mentioned something about not knowing where to put me in terms of classification. Personally I wouldn't mind being in the Beast division."

Hermione choked on her tea.

* * *

><p>His real business at the Ministry had less to do with himself and more to do with one Sirius Black. After lunch James meandered his way back to the classroom Dumbledore had converted into living quarters for him, and transfigured his robes into a more sombre and professional black. He straightened his tie and made a futile attempt to style his hair, and when he thought he looked respectable, he sat down on the large bed in his single room.<p>

"Fix your hair, sir!" the mirror said in a shrill, impatient voice.

Wonderful. He'd gotten a rude mirror. "Shut it," he said amiably. "I'm trying to think."

Sirius. He was thinking about Sirius. His thoughts were a hopeless jumble and his mind kept replaying his last conversation with his best mate. The conversation that changed everything. If only he'd accepted Dumbledore's offer. But Lily... it was Lily who said no to the headmaster. No, he couldn't take on that responsibility. Voldemort would come after him to get to them. Dumbledore hadn't backed down without a good argument. The Dark Lord was after him anyway. He would be perfectly safe at his school.

No, she'd said. It was too much for him to take on.

James's stomach twisted into a painful knot and he considered dipping into the bottle of firewhiskey tucked under his bed. No, bad idea. Tempting, but... Sirius.

Too much for Dumbledore, but for Sirius? Sure. That would be fine. Perfect, in fact. His best friend- his brother, really.

_Stupid_, he thought, _stupid, stupid, stupid._

And Sirius, clever and devious- he was a Black, after all- had come to them with a plan, a way to keep them even safer. The Dark Lord would come looking for him, not that he would ever betray the Potters, but this way he couldn't. Give the secret to Peter. Little Peter Pettigrew, not too bright, not too brave. The perfect plan.

James glanced at his watch and checked himself in the mirror one last time. The sight of himself looking so well-off, so healthy, made him feel sick to his stomach. He would see Remus, and with any luck, Sirius as well, tonight. He imagined his friends as they'd been fourteen years ago, but knew it couldn't be so. They would have aged. Their lives would be visible on their faces. And he looked like a well-kept prat who'd never seen a hard day's work in his life.

His stomach twisted into another knot.

His friends...

"Much better," said the mirror.

James shook his head and left for Dumbledore's office. The headmaster was waiting for him in front of the fireplace.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be."

* * *

><p>The Ministry of Magic hadn't changed a bit, not that James had expected it to. Important-looking wizards and witches bustled around and tried to look even more important than they were. His wand went through clearance and he received many a shocked looks as he walked with the headmaster to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Whispering seemed to follow him everywhere, to the point of irritation, and he very nearly commented on it. A stray thought stopped him.<p>

His own son had to deal with being famous, being a notable public figure. And if Harry could conduct himself well under that pressure, then... well, James had no right to complain. He kept his mouth shut on that subject and opted for light conversation.

"Who's heading up the department these days?"

"Madam Amelia Bones, naturally."

"She must have taken Edgar's death very hard," James said quietly. He remembered Amelia Bones. She hadn't been very career-driven, was happy to be an auror, but thought her brother and his wife were foolish for joining the Order.

"Indeed she did."

"I always thought Frank would do a bang-up job heading the Department."

Professor Dumbledore stopped and turned to him. "James... Frank and Alice- you know they were targets of Voldemort's."

"They're not dead!" His voice cracked and for the first time since last night when he'd finally held his son in his arms, reality seemed to spin around him and drag him into a terribly heavy place where he couldn't think straight.

"No, no. They're in St. Mungo's."

His voice died in his throat and he kept walking. Dumbledore fell in stride with him easily and patted his shoulder, but didn't say anything. That was alright. Words meant very little sometimes. He wanted to ask who else had suffered, where all of his friends and comrades were, but he couldn't. It frightened him to think about the world going on while his body had been lying in the ground. Fourteen years. Would he ever catch up?

"James, I can't fathom what this must be like for you, but for your sake and Sirius's, you must focus."

"I know." He focused on halting the spinning sensation in his head. It seemed to help if he breathed very deeply and slowly, and pictured himself and Sirius having a drink and catching up. Good times, he needed to think about good times. Harry and his delightful friends, Ron and Hermione.

They came to the head of the department's office, located at the very end of the long hallway. Dumbledore knocked twice and the door swung open rather ominously.

"Come in, Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter."

James stepped into a very spacious office and stretched his arm across the ornate oak desk, offering his hand to Amelia Bones. He couldn't help but notice how terribly old she looked. Old and tired. "Madam Bones," he said, "I hope you're well."

"Quite well, thank you." She shook his hand briskly. "Have a seat, please. I understand you have important information pertaining to a conviction made fourteen years ago?" Her serious gaze flickered between himself and Dumbledore.

"A wrongful conviction carried out by Bartemius Crouch, yes." James took a seat in the straight-backed chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Sirius Black wasn't given a fair trial."

"Ah yes, I thought as much." Madam Bones opened a drawer behind her desk and stuck the end of her wand in it. A folder materialized and floated out onto her desk, where it lay open innocently. "Sirius Black wasn't given a trial at all. Those were different times, as you well know, Mr. Potter. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was under so much pressure and Mr. Crouch did the best with what he had." She pursed her lips as she read through the folder. "Convicted of murdering twelve muggles and one wizard, Peter Pettigrew."

"Madam Bones," he said, aware that a thin layer of sweat had formed on his palms, "I'll be perfectly honest with you- the department made a terrible mistake arresting Sirius Black. He's not a murderer. Even under the circumstances, he wouldn't have murdered Pettigrew." The traitor's name tasted unbearably foul on his tongue, and it took a great deal of reserve not to scowl.

"Circumstances, Mr. Potter?" Madam Bones stared at him with the intensity of a bird of prey.

"Well... as you know," he said, aware that his voice was faltering slightly but unable to stop it, "the Dark Lord was after my family and we had gone into hiding-"

"Yes, I know the story. Your family's location was under the protection of a Fidelius Charm and Sirius Black was your Secret-Keeper, correct?"

"No." He shook his head fervently. "No, we switched. At the last minute, we switched. _Pettigrew_ was the Secret-Keeper. We thought it would be less obvious." His chest ached and his stomach began to twist itself into knots once more. "He was a spy for the Dark Lord, Amelia. He betrayed us, and framed Sirius Black for murder."

She blinked rapidly and gawked at him for a long, awkward moment. "Peter Pettigrew's finger was found-"

"He cut it off himself, and fled the scene. He's an unregistered animagus. That's how he escaped." This was the hard part, the part he'd been dreading most, which seemed odd considering the subject at hand. "As am I- we worked alongside each other in school."

Again she stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "Mr. Potter, not registering yourself as an animagus is a crime-"

"Yes, I know it's a crime."

She looked down at the folder, then back up at him. Her severe expression faltered. "We all wondered, you know... when they arrested him. Sirius Black, betray the Potters? But of course, the rest of his family..." She paused and seemed to collect herself, then continued, "It's a fascinating tale, James- Mr. Potter, but you haven't any proof."

James slumped back in his chair. That was true. He had no proof that Sirius hadn't murdered thirteen people. There wasn't much he could do about that.

"Might I suggest," Dumbledore spoke up lightly, "that the Wizengamot simply put Mr. Black on trial? Seeing as how he never had one, I believe that may resolve the situation on numerous levels."

"Ah," Madam Bones said.

"Oh," said James.

"Of course, the majority of evidence will be eyewitness accounts- it is an old case, and the facts are a bit hazy, but I see no reason why that course of action wouldn't be a suitable one."

"To try a man we must have him in custody first." She directed her piercing gaze to Dumbledore now. "And Black is a fugitive."

"I wouldn't worry about that," said Dumbledore mildly. "I have a phoenix who is most excellent at delivering mail. I assure you Mr. Black will receive notification if a date for a trial is set."

Madam Bones drummed her fingers on the oak desk for a moment, then nodded curtly. "If there is new evidence to introduce, then very well. I will meet with the Wizengamot and we shall set a trial date. Normally I would never allow such a thing- it seems all too preposterous, but these are extremely unique circumstances." Her eyes moved back to James and she shook her head. "Unbelievable. The Minister briefed me on your return, Mr. Potter, but I still had my doubts."

"About the animagus thing," he said uncertainly, "you wouldn't lock me up for that, would you?"

"You will file the paperwork and become a registered animagus," she said crisply. "If that is all, the Wizengamot is assembling in fifteen minutes and I am running late as it is."

James nodded and shook her hand once more. Once they were out of her office and down the hallway, he became aware that he was shaking rather uncontrollably, and found himself wishing for the bottle tucked away under his bed. If it all went to hell, if he failed Sirius... his best friend would be worse than dead. But he couldn't think like that. No, he would go on record, under Veritaserum if he had to, he would explain everything...

"Calm down, James. We've plenty of time to build a case for Sirius." Dumbledore patted his shoulder reassuringly. "That was admirable of you, admitting to being an unregistered animagus."

"I had to," he said. His voice was weak now, taking a much-needed rest from that conversation. He'd done well, he knew. He'd been calm and confident and polite. But the whole ordeal left him feeling drained and shaky and in need of a drink. And it was only mid-afternoon. "The Leaky Cauldron?" he suggested to Dumbledore.

"Ah, yes. Wonderful idea, James." Dumbledore removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes before replacing them. "Ministry business is dreadfully tiring, isn't it?"


End file.
